The American Isles
by Kuruyami
Summary: Hallo! A good friend of mine wrote this story for me for Christmas and I thought I'd share it with you. England is once again fighting with America and, this time, he's really suffering. He's losing everything. What can he possibly do to save his country? To save who he is? Bad summary !
1. Chapter 1

_**Hey, Birdies~! It's your buddy-pal-amigo Kuruyami here with something from someone special~!**_

_**So, my friend wrote me a story for Christmas and I liked it so much I thought I'd beg her to let me share it with you! I got on my knees and used my awesomeness and charming skills to get her to cave in. I don't wanna use her name, so I'm making one up. Here's how the conversation went:  
**_

_**Kuru- Oi! Can I give this story to my lovely readers online~?**_

_**AmericanKirkland- Um... I suppose.**_

_**Kuru- Oh, come on! It's too good to hold back! Wait, what?**_

_**AmericanKirkland- Use it. Go on.**_

_**Kuru- Oh... Ok~!**_

_**Now, read on!**_

* * *

England woke up in British flag boxers and a gray tank-top, the sunlight slanting in through his window in to his eyes, the white drapes parted just so. He rolled onto his back, rubbing his eyes with his hand to wake himself up. His mouth opened wide as a yawn forced its way out his mouth, and, being the gentleman he is, he covered his wide mouth with his palm as he yawned. He blinked a couple times before swinging his legs over the edge so he was sitting upright on the edge of his bed, his covers thrown carelessly off his body in the process. His hands laid at his sides, clutching the bed spread, and he stared at the laminate floor; a small shiver went down his side as the cold air of his room finally registered with his brain.

"Shame we have to get up, Love...It's so cold." He chuckled lightly. "I'd rather..." He looked over his shoulder, blinking his green eyes sleepily. His smile became a straight line which deepened to a frown as he saw the empty bed space behind him, and the room seemed colder as memories washed over him like a thrashing ocean wave.

He stretched, his arms taut above his head, and he pushed himself off his mattress, his happiness gone. He flinched and rubbed his knee as pain flared and made him stumble a small bit. Another terrorist attack, perilously close to London, had happened while he was sleeping. He started walking down the stairs to the kitchen, and got out his only teakettle. As he poured milk in to his hot tea, he felt a warm hand on his bare shoulder. He ignored the person, focusing instead on the strong smell of the tea.

"Hey, dude! Have a good night's sleep?"

England shrugged America's hand off, the feeling of hatred and anger bubbling inside his soul, flaring higher at how cheerful Alfred sounded. "Yeah, sure." He answered, pretending to be absentminded so America would leave him alone. It worked as America went to the living room and England sipped the tea, not caring if his tongue or esophagus burned with the scalding liquid being poured down his throat.

"We have a World Meeting today! Don't forget!" He said before disappearing in to the bathroom to shower.

"How could I?" England muttered darkly in to his white mug before taking another long swig, the pain of his burning mouth making him want to scream.

England straightened his green tie and recrossed his legs at the knees, antsy. He watched Russia talk about finally legalizing gay marriage in his country, drumming his fingers on the table. Russia's voice drowned out the sound of his fingers thudding against the wood, so no one seemed to notice his impatience. He was only mildly interested in Ivan's news, though it was good news, and was slightly annoyed at the seemingly knowing glances everyone stole at England.

As everyone filed out at the end, he heard Italy talking to Germany as they walked past. "So we'll make pasta together, and then we'll sit on the couch and read! It'll be fun! I love you, always!"

England stopped walking, and heard the others' footsteps echoing down the hall. Italy's last sentence echoed in his mind, reverberating. His hands clenched in to fists as he felt a pang in his heart each time it beat. Memories raced through his mind, his eyes wide and staring at nothing, and he blinked before starting to walk briskly again, hands in his pockets and shoulders hunched.

"Come on England!" America had stopped and was waiting up for him, waving. England's head was ducked as he hurried past his little brother, not even glancing at him. America didn't question this, just watched his brother walk.

England hung his coat up on the metal hook, the last of the wintry wind making him tremble as America closed the door and cut off its path. America grabbed England's elbow as he made his way to the stairwell. "Hey, I know you usually lock yourself up in your room, but could you just hang out with me this time? You know, a family dinner?"

England paused, hand on the polished railing. After a long moment of pure silence, he slowly looked his brother in his blue eyes, his sharp green gaze making his brother shrink back with guilt. "I have no more family." He answered, his soft voice echoing throughout the house. America's hand slowly dropped, and England turned and trudged heavily back up the stairs, his footsteps sounding lonely. They reminded him of a march to a hopeless battle.

He sat down on the cold bed, and put his head in his hands, elbows on his knees. The past few years went through his mind, and he could feel the regular migraine starting to run its course. It seemed to come once a week now instead of once a month. He got up to get aspirin and some water.

"Hey, Love, why don't you sit down? I could get it for you. " A quiet voice behind him sounded, making him freeze.

He looked up suddenly and looked behind him, eyes wide. The bed was still empty. But...He had heard her voice. He would know it from miles away. His breathing came sharper, and he flopped down on to his side, migraine forgotten, staring at the spot where he always carefully tucked the covers under the fluffy pillows. He stared until his eyes hurt with the strain, as if hoping she would appear if he concentrated hard enough. His hand, trembling, reached out and stroked the blanket beside him. "I love you." He whispered, though he knew she was too far away to hear. He slowly closed his eyes and the gentleness of sleep embraced him, but was soon ripped to shreds by the claws of a nightmare.

* * *

**So, what do ya think so far? By this point, I was really hooked. I wanted to know what was happening, who the girl was, and why she wasn't there.**

**Leave some messages for my good friend because she really needs some motivation!**

**Until next chapter! Follow and Favorite!**

**Byyyeeerrrr!**


	2. Chapter 2

**_Yo~! I thought it would be awesome if I did another chapter of this today instead of making you wait._**

**_So, I'm on the phone with my dear friend, AmericanKirkland, and she sounds scared. Anything to tell her? Anything reassuring? Any kind of feedback is accepted and I'll personally tell you what she said in response to what you said._**

**_ANYWHO._**

**_Now, read on!_**

* * *

2010  
"England, why don't you tell France you want to apologize for everything you've done to him?"

"What if he doesn't return the apology, or even accepts it?" England asked, a note of worry in his voice. He didn't know when he had started, but now every time he needed advice he found himself dialing Matthew's number.

"Well, the worst that can happen is he tries to douse you in wine, right?" Canada smiled on his end of the phone, but quickly frowned as annoying, American laughter sounded.

"Hahaha!"

England remembered how America had bugged France, Germany, and Spain's phones. He looked down at the house phone in his hand, the laughter ringing in his ears like the annoying high-pitched buzzing of a house fly. He watched as Call Ended flashed on the phone's tiny screen, and he slammed the phone down on its charger. He gritted his teeth, and paced the room, running his hands through his messy blonde hair angrily as he thought of ways to yell at Alfred and slowly the worst of his anger began to fade in to a dull irritation. He grabbed the phone and dialed his brother's number. He put the phone to his ear. It ringed once, twice, three times...

"Um, hey dude..."

"You bugged my phone! I'm your ally! That's such an irresponsible and immature thing for you to do, America! I expected better of you, even with my low standards for you!" England yelled and scolded in to his phone for a good five minutes as his anger flared up again at the sound of Alfred's voice answering the phone. America was silent.

"I-I'm sorry..."

"You're sorry?!" England shook with absolute rage. "Is that all you can say for yourself, is that you're sorry?!" A robin sitting and singing in peace on his windowsill flew away at his loud voice, and landed in an oak tree, sounding the alarm call.

"I trusted you, bloody hell I raised you! I would've thought you'd learn better, know better, even though you're so young. Apparently I was wrong! How could you?! I thought you trusted me, liked me! Maybe even loved me as your big brother, finally! I thought we had finally gotten through all our bad times!" The Revolutionary War and the War of 1812 flashed through his mind, and he had to shut his mouth and bite his lower lip to keep the tears from spilling out on to his pale cheeks which had become flushed with anger.

"I can't believe you!" He suddenly screamed, his voice itself shaking, every syllable and letter dripping with emotion as he tore the sentence from his vocal chords.

He stabbed the red hang-up button with his thumb and slammed the phone back on its stand without giving America a chance to defend himself. England leaned against the kitchen counter, head bowed and knuckles white as he clenched the ends of the counter-tops, shaking uncontrollably. He fought the urge to scream out in rage.

* * *

Present

England and America both nodded to the President, though England was reluctant to agree to this.

"Dude, that's a great idea!" America looked at Arthur, blue eyes shining with excitement and expectation for England to agree.

"Wait a moment now. Let's consider this-"

"Homeeeyy, your whole 'driving on the left side of the road' is un-American and totally weird!"

England sighed, and zoned out as America yammered on about England's "weirdness". He just nodded where he thought he needed to, and replied with the minimum number of words possible as his mind wandered to how Flying Mint Bunny was doing. I haven't seen him in a while... America seemed satisfied, and England wondered with a burst of small fear what he had just agreed to. America clapped him on the back, and they both shook their President's hand before leaving the White House, England a bit suspicious.

England walked down the street, a car only coming every twenty minutes or so. America had offered him a ride home in his red, white, and blue Mustang, but England avoided his younger brother as much as possible. Since he had moved in to the United State's house, he had spent much of his time locked up in his bedroom, watching crappy American reality shows on the television or listening to his music. For some reason he didn't quite understand, America had confiscated his cellular and laptop. It had made England's job harder, but not impossible.

His footfalls on the concrete had a sort of rhythm to them, and he adjusted his stride, playing that old 'don't-step-on-a-crack' game that kids played in elementary school. He played very rarely, and always made sure he was alone before doing so. It was foolish for a 23-year-old man to play such a stupid game; he knew this. But it kept him occupied as he walked. He watched as some brown, dry leaves tumbled across the empty street and twirled up in to the blue autumn sky, their seemingly endless ballet seeming lonely and sad to the Englishman.

He hurried his pace until he was jogging, and he just wanted to see a phone booth. One stupid phone booth he could run in to and call his love in. He wanted to see Big Ben rising up against the sky line, not the Washington Monument! He wanted to hear British accents, the hustle-bustle of Northern Ireland, even the Wales taxi cabs. Damn these stupid Americans! How could they reduce him to this?!

He ran in to his house, slamming the door behind him, stomped up the stairs, and jumped on to his bed, hugging his pillow as the tears he had held in for all these past years streamed in rivulets down his face. He sobbed on his side, curled up around his pillow and staining it with the salty teardrops.

Once he got a firm hold on himself, he wiped his tears away on his arms. He felt arms around his body, and he shut his eyes tighter. He knew she would disappear if he opened them to see her beauty; he kept them shut tight. He breathed through his mouth, his breath coming out in strangled gasps. Then the person hugging him spoke.

"It'll be alright." America consoled, right by his ear. England pushed him away once realizing it wasn't his imagination, breathing heavily. He stared at him through his watery eyes, angry and sad and confused.

"England, I'm so sorry..."

"Then let me go. Please..." He begged; he knew his brother's answer before he opened his mouth.

"You know I can't." He spoke softly, and brushed England's bangs, wet from his tears, away from his face.

England looked away from him and hugged the pillow tighter to his chest. He watched America out of the corner of his eye, watched him sit there like a stone, feeling useless and unneeded. A burden; which, to England, he was. He wasn't always, but he was now. I could have lived a great life without him. With this thought his old anger against the USA flamed up and he looked further away.

America sighed, and knew his old brother, the brother who might have loved him once, was gone again, replaced by this ball of hatred. And he didn't blame England... Not once.

England blinked up at his ceiling. He looked at the alarm clock beside his bed on his nightstand. 11:58 PM. He put his hands together, and interlaced his fingers as he tilted his head and let the tips of his finger meet his forehead. He had given up on God when America had taken control. But maybe...

"Please...Let me have my freedom back. All I ask for is my freedom, and for Olivia. Please." He opened his eyes, and closed them again. It can't hurt, can it? He thought. He prayed to the Greek Gods, for he knew his love prayed to them instead of the Christian God. He finished his prayer, let his hands fall to his sides, and closed his eyes.

* * *

_**People, I really want some food. I know that has absolutely nothing to do with this story, but I just thought you should know.  
**_

_**I... I really have no real comment for this ending Author's Note... That's new.**_

_**I must be getting sick.**_

_**I'm probably dying.**_

_**ANYWHO, until next chapter. Follow and Favorite!**_

_**Byyyeeerrrr!**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**You know what, guys? I think I'll do more chapters for The American Isles today. Who knows, I may finish it. I'm still on the phone with her and I think she's dead. It's very quiet...**_

_**ANYWHO, let's see what's happening!**_

_**Now, read on!**_

* * *

2010  
England stood at his end of the table as the familiar twit walked in to the Meeting room, a smug light in his green eyes. "Hello, Brother."

America put down his briefcase, never breaking eye contact with England as he straightened back up. "You've already lost twice to me."

"I'm stronger now, and I've learned from those past incidents. There's no way I'll lose this time." He replied, smirking. He could feel the other nations eying the two siblings uneasily, and it heightened his sense of superiority to know they were watching him.

"But if you do lose this time-"

"I won't."

"Well, if you do, I'll make sure you never go against the United States of America ever. Again." America's tone was full of hostility, and it threw the Brit off for a split second, but he quickly regained his composure.

"I will win this war. I'll have finally beaten you. Britain is exceptionally good at fighting, America. We'll beat your fat soldiers any day." He sneered before resuming his seat.

He felt so stupid, running into war against Alfred. He fired his gun again, and watched it hit an American soldier and watched the woman crumple to the dusty ground. He hid back in the foxhole to reload his carbine as another explosion went off to his left. The American tanks were advancing quickly, and England's heart was banging against his rib cage. The Briton beside him turned and started firing his gun when he had to duck another tank blast.

"Bloody hell! That was close!" He said to Arthur, who just nodded, mute with shock and fear.

He turned back to his gun when Charles, the man beside him, grabbed the back of his shirt and threw him out of the foxhole and screamed for him to run just as a blast sounded and shrapnel rained down in the foxhole where he had been just a second ago. He watched Charles slump over, blood flooding the trench. Stifling a scream of horror, England turned and ran, dashing madly like a red squirrel dodging a kestrel.

He sought refuge in another hole, and started firing again. He had forgotten Charles already; he had lived through so much war losing his soldiers had hardened him and he was never bothered by it or distracted. He killed off more American soldiers as British tanks came from behind him. He allowed a small smile, thinking that just maybe they were no longer outnumbered.

They had come in through Canada, and had come along down the Northeastern coast, taking Maine, Vermont, and most of New England. They were trying to get to Washington D.C., and were making slow but steady progress. It helped that there had been two more terrorist bombings, one in New York (and that had enabled the British to a great victory in Albany) and St. Louis, taking out the Arch. England knew they weren't on the British side; he wasn't that stupid. He knew they were just doing this to hurt the Americans. And it was working.

Suddenly the largest explosion England had ever seen, heard, or felt went off. He crouched lower in the trench until his face was completely smeared with dirt and grime, his gun protected by his body. He felt as if his ear drums had shattered, and he was pretty sure he was permanently deaf now. He remembered opening his eyes for a split second before closing them, and seeing the entire trench was bathed in red light; he didn't know if it was from blood or fire. He then felt the heat.

If the sun had heat rolling off it in waves like the ocean, it would have been pleasantly warm compared to this extreme temperature. He gritted his teeth, and hoped he wasn't too badly burned, and that his hair wasn't on fire as he sat. Soon, shrapnel rained down, and England knew he should get up and run but he was frozen in fear.

He could feel the sharp edges slicing through his uniform like scissors through paper, and felt the cold edges touch and cut his skin like it was butter. He felt warm blood trickle down from everywhere, and yet he didn't feel the stings of the multiple cuts. One hit him on the top of his head, the blood trickled down in to his mouth after it had mixed with the dirt on his face and dust in his hair, and he spit the foul-tasting liquid out.

He got back up after reloading to shoot more, but the battlefield was empty except for dead bodies and ruined weapons. Confused, he stood up, and suddenly he felt hands push chloroform to his mouth roughly. He blacked out, slumping against the person who had drugged him.

* * *

He woke up in a small room, and looked around. His wrists were bound, and he was tied to a chair. His arms, legs, torso, everything ached and hurt. He looked down to assess the damage on his body, and found white gauze almost everywhere on his body. His head felt heavy, and he guessed he had been put on painkillers. He gritted his teeth as Alfred walked up to him, blue eyes like chips of ice.

"Your boss surrendered this morning." He said coldly. "You're mine now."

"What the bloody hell are you talking about?!" England yelled, struggling to get untied. Just because America won, it didn't make him his wife or anything; he focused more on getting free from the chair.

"I told you at the last Meeting. If you lost this time—which you did—I'd make sure you never fought a war against me again. Neither of us can handle the cost anymore, be it soldiers or money. You are American territory now."

"You bloody wanker! You blooming idiot! You egotistical, arrogant, paranoid ball of obesity and idiocy!"

America undid the ropes on England's wrists and ankles as he cussed America and his stupidity out. England continued his rant as he rubbed his chafed wrists, which were red from the ties. England finally took a breath, in which America was able to get his words out.

"Listen up! I'm not having you waste your money and soldiers on another war! I'm doing this for you!"

"No America...You're doing this for you. So the 'great and holy' America will be larger, with less enemies." Arthur accused.

America stared at his brother in sorrow. "And...You'll have to live with me."

England looked up from the floor in utter surprise. "Wait...What?"

"You have to."

"But she can live—"

"No. Olivia will have to stay in London. I don't have room in my house for more than two people, and besides...Do you want her to see you like this?" America said forcefully, motioning at his brother's ruined state. England stood, and shouldered America roughly aside as he walked past his brother until he was in the Pine Barrens alone.

He stopped and leaned against a red oak, listening to the tree frogs and barred owls. The wind, once so soothing and warm, was chilly now, and it stung his eyes and nose. He looked up, watching the stars twinkle in the black night sky above him, sometimes blotted out by the waving tree branches. If he was just another American state now, would he disappear, start to look more and more like America, or would he just stay the same? He considered each option, and realized he'd rather the New Jersey Devil take him then each option he had. He closed his eyes, but the flapping of leathery wings never reached his ears, and the feeling of hooves grabbing him never came. He stood there for a long time, waiting in the cold.

* * *

_**So, first off, the name "Olivia" was mentioned briefly. She is based off of an old British-American actress by the name of**_ _**Olivia de Havilland... and a little off of American Kirkland...**_

_**ANYWHO, feedback is nice. She's an aspiring author and I hope to fuel her drive to write. Feedback from you guys, good or bad, will really help her.**_

_**So, until next chapter! Follow and Favorite!**_

_**Byyyeeerrrr!**_


	4. Chapter 4

_**Hey~! It's your buddy-pal-amigo Kuru~! I forgot to say Happy New Year to everybirdie, so... **_

_**Happy New Year!**_

_**AmericanKirkland and I wanted to thank those of you who are reading this and we hope you enjoy the story. I know she's always really excited when I tell her how many people are reading this and she's always really happy when I tell her how many of you are British.**_

_**She has a bit of a Brit fetish.**_

_**She loves you all though!**_

_**And I love you guys too. *hugs you***_

_**Now, read on!**_

* * *

Present

"Ze 'American Isles'?" France raised an eyebrow.

England nodded. "Yes. I wish to legally change my name from The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland to the American Isles." He wanted to say that he didn't wish this, America was demanding it. But Alfred didn't want him to, for some reason.

Germany took his reading glasses off and rubbed his eyes with his fingers, a sign of disappointment. It made England want to bow his head in shame; he had always respected the German and his opinion. "Vhy vould you vant to do zat?"

Everyone stared at Iggy knowingly, and he knew what they thought: They thought UsUk. He wanted to vomit. How could they think he loved his brother romantically when he had—or _had_ had—Olivia; after they had seen what the blue-eyed git had put him through, throughout his entire history. He wanted to throttle them. Badly. They saw a relationship that, put simply, was not there.

Curiously, France, the country that was most obsessed with lust and love, seemed to know this. Perhaps it was just that Francis knew him better, or because he was so obsessed with love he could tell. As England started packing his things up to leave, France walked up to him and placed a hand on his shoulder, making him stop mid-step.

"I don't know why you put up with it, Caterpillar-Face."

"He's impossible to beat, Frog-face. I've given up." England answered back, not annoyed, just tired. France let him go and watched after him.

The gentleman allowed a smile on to his face as a goldfinch above him twittered before flying away, leaving the cherry tree waving slightly. He thought about things. The US and Russia were still working on getting the chemical weapons out of Syria, and since England was closer, America had started sending people from Scotland and Wales out to get them. Once, a group of rebel Syrians had shot at the party that had went for the weapons. England was certain that it was a conspiracy: Only the Welsh had died.

He got to the house, and saw hamburgers on the table. He felt a weird craving, and sat on the couch to watch TV, though trying to ignore the desire for the grilled patty. He found himself reaching for one at a commercial break when it was advertising dog food, and ate it. America sat by him, watching him unwrap the colored foil. He shrugged it off, and they played video games on the Xbox until one in the morning. England had never stayed up that late unless doing paperwork at the office.

* * *

England woke up in his clothes from yesterday, sprawled on his bed. He'd been too tired to change out of his clothes, and he stretched before getting up.

He went to the bathroom to brush his teeth and shave when he noticed something. His eyes widened, and his quaking hand touched his eyebrow, which was now a slender thing, no longer bushy. They looked exactly like...Like America's eyebrows. Then he ran a hand through his hair in amazement and horror, and noticed a tiny strand of blonde hair starting to curl backwards towards the back of his head, unlike the rest of his bangs which fell flat against his forehead when he released them.

"Just...Just a little bad hair day, is all." He laughed nervously to his reflection. He could see the worry in the other England's wide eyes, and he tried to focus on what he had entered the room to do. He left the bathroom, and saw America making coffee.

"Hey dude I was thinking—" He paused, staring at his brother's forehead. "Finally shaved those things, huh?"

He laughed. "Nah, I woke up and they were like this." It hurt him how casual he was about it, since eyebrows didn't just suddenly thin overnight, and he knew this. But he didn't mind. He never liked his bushy eyebrows...Well, there was one time when—

"Aw. Iggy-bunny, I loved them. Could you grow them back out?" He spun on his heel to see her, but of course she wasn't there and he cursed himself for acting stupid in front of America.

"Dude, you okay?"

"Y-yeah...Say, you shouldn't drink coffee. The caffeine will hurt you eventually."

"And your tea doesn't have caffeine?" America raised his eyebrow, smiling.

"Fair." They laughed, and he felt closer to Alfred F. Jones than he had in a long, long time.

* * *

The paperwork he had before found dull was now mind-numbingly boring. He took out his iPod, and put the black ear buds in as he started to go through his songs. He sat there on his white swivel chair, head tilted back so it was resting on the back of the chair, arms on the armrests, iPod in his right hand, and his green eyes closed. He rocked the swivel chair with his foot gently to the beat. Then the song Viva La Vida came on, the familiar tone once so nice to his ears. He ripped the ear buds from his head, hurting his ears a little, and threw the iPod at his computer. It hit the screen and bounced off, landing in a black-and-white heap on the carpeted floor.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, sighing heavily. He leaned down, picked up the electronic, and stuffed it in to his pocket. He grabbed the edge of the desk, pulled himself up to it, and began his paperwork again. He typed quickly, his eyes scanning the pages on the screen.

He finally leaned back when done for the day. He checked the time. 4:57 PM. He grabbed his coat, put it on, wrapped his scarf around his neck twice, and left the building, putting his gloves on as he jogged down the front steps, his breath billowing in a cloud as he exhaled. It floated up to the gray sky as he finally hit the ground and started walking to his house. He put his hands in his coat pockets, and kept walking, a chilly breeze tugging at his hair. He looked up as America pulled up beside the street in his Mustang.

"Dude, you look cold. Let's go get a hot cocoa."

England blinked at him. "I'll get in the car...But can we please just get tea?"

"Um, sure." America thought England liked hot cocoa, but decided not to question it if he was willing to spend time with his little brother. He leaned over and opened the passenger door, and England got in and buckled up after closing the door.

"So, how was work?" America asked as he pulled away from the curb.

"The usual. Boring and tedious." He smiled as he rested his elbow near the window, his chin in his hand.

"Same here." He chuckled lightly, and England gave a small 'hm' of acknowledgment, still looking out the car window at the bare trees and businesses rolling by. He knew that, subconsciously, Arthur was still looking for her; he had never stopped.

They came to a local cafe boasting 'America's greatest Coffee.' He saw England roll his eyes at the sign playfully, and America grinned. His old brother was back, but for how long? He just had to use the most of the time he had left with him.

After a grilled cheese sandwich each and a mug of black coffee for America and a cup of herbal tea for England, they got back in the car and were silent, listening to the car's radio as they got lost in each one's own thoughts.

England fell asleep happy; America fell asleep happily.

And so their days went like this for a long time. England was happy for the first time in a long while, and both countries were doing well. They got closer, and eventually it was almost exactly like when it was England and little America. They had fun decorating their house for Christmas, or Xmas as America called it. England noticed that the one curl in his hair kept getting longer, and eventually it looked exactly like America's, except it leaned outwards instead of inwards; sort of like how Italy's curl was on the left and Romano's was on the right. England didn't mind, and he soon was very happy.

* * *

One day as they were leaving a World Meeting, France approached England a second time.

"England, you should fight 'im. Your country's academic scores are getting lower, and your obesity rates are getting 'igher! I worry."

"If I fight, I'll lose."

"Lose what? You 'ave nothing to lose and everyzing to gain!"

"'Nothing to lose'?! I...I could lose..." He thought hard. "If I fight, America might do something terrible to Olivia!" He was about to turn his back, but an emotion flashed in the Frenchman's blue eyes, and he stopped.

"What?"

"Didn't America tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

France stared at his friend, eyes wide. "Olivia...The mademoiselle died in a car crash a couple of weeks ago. I...I tried to drag 'er from the wreckage but it was too late."

"N...N-no...No! You're lying!"

France just stared sadly at him. "Angleterre..."

"S-shut up! You really shouldn't lie about things like this, Frog! It...It really hurts! But, ha! I-I can see through your lies! Y-yeah, I can!" Tears welled up in his eyes.

"I wish it were a lie." France spoke softly.

"N-no...Please, God no..."

France reached forward to hug him, but England turned and ran blindly. He didn't know when he was engulfed by trees, but the forest didn't calm him at all, which was unusual.

He stopped after a while and screamed out in agony, falling to his knees in the dirt. He sobbed in to his hands, tears falling heavily as his sobs were punctuated with screams that sounded more animal than man. His shoulders heaved, and soon the contents of his lunch were in a pool at his knees, some of it dribbling down his chin still and mixing with his tears. He continued to cry and scream. He retched again.

* * *

He didn't know when he had fallen asleep, he was only aware of the forest's night sounds trying to calm him, and the stars twinkling happily up above in the heavens.

"Of course you're happy...You're not alone. You have millions of close friends, but I...I have no one." He whispered to the stars, who only ignored him gleefully.

He knew he had stumbled in to a different clearing, and had collapsed there after vomiting a third time. He was freezing cold, curled up in the fetal position with vomit stains on his pants and sleeves. His shirt was stained with large dark spots where his tears had soaked it. He closed his eyes, trying to make it all a dream. Yes, a dream. He would wake up—soon—and Olivia would be right next to him, sleeping peacefully.

And he would watch her sleep as he liked to do, occasionally stroking her hair. He would feel the softness of her skin, and her rhythmic heartbeat...

_A-And when she wakes up, she'll smile and kiss me good-morning... Like she always does..._

Fresh tears pricked his reddened eyes, and soon were overflowing again; this time he was silent as he cried for his lost love.

* * *

_**Whoa... Iggy... *hugs him* **_

_**E: What are you doing?**_

_**So! What did you guys for the 2014 New Year? Did you eat? Sleep? Yell at the loud neighbors? **_

_**I did.**_

_**Tell me~!**_

_**Until next chapter! Follow and Favorite!**_

_**Byyyeeerrrr!**_


	5. Chapter 5

_**Hey~! It's your buddy-pal-amigo, Kuru here with another chapter of AmericanKirkland's The American Isles!**_

_**So, for some weird reason, won't load some of the website pages, like to add new chapters. I've been trying hard to work around it, so forgive me if there are any typos or sections missing or chapters just don't appear after I upload them.**_

_**ANYWHO, I think this story is just about finished~! Some of you are crying because of that and some of you are throwing a party. One question:**_

_**Can I come to the party?**_

_**I like parties.**_

_**Now, read on!**_

* * *

The morning sun woke him this time, and he got up, stumbling about like a drunken man—and he must have looked like a drunk too—he exited the woods to get to his house and clean himself up before anyone saw him. He just knew he would rather go through an excruciating hangover, filled with vomiting and headaches, then lose her forever.

He entered the shower, and was soon hit with another mini-breakdown. He found himself curled up naked in the shower biting his knees as the water from the shower-head beat down on his back and spine. The shower water mixed with his tears, and he had to fight the screams and sobs bubbling up in his throat; he didn't want America to find him reduced to this. He rocked a little bit before he was finally strong enough to stand back up and continue his shower, his tears still rolling down every few minutes. He shut his bedroom door quietly, and locked it. He sat on his bed, and stared at his wall. He closed his eyes, and leaned back until he had flopped down on to his bed, wearing a light-green tank-top and his British flag boxers. He stared at the white ceiling tiles, thinking.

He could feel himself getting stupider with each and every passing day, and his vocabulary was shrinking. He knew obesity, disorders, and crime rates were getting higher in the Isles, and he hated it. He had hidden the hatred deep in his heart, but now as he laid there in only his British flag boxers and tank-top, his hands clenched the thin sheets. He had nothing to lose. What could America do? Kill him? I'd just come back. He smiled maliciously. He rummaged through his closet, found his old suitcase, and started to pack his belongings. He picked up a book, and a note fell out. He picked it up, stared at it for the longest time, and started to unfold it.

_Dear Iggy-bunny,_  
_I noticed you seemed rather stressed today. You weren't even happy_  
_when I complimented your cooking! Is it work? If it is, why don't_  
_take a break tomorrow and we can have a picnic. If it's_  
_something else, tell me. You know you can talk to me. I love you._  
_Forever and always~,_  
_Your Love_

He thought it wasn't possible for his heart to break even more. But the broken pieces inside him shattered and he had to fight the tears for two minutes before he lost and they spilled out. He went downstairs once he was calmed down, and found America reclined on the couch by himself, flipping through channels.

"I'm declaring war against you." England said calmly. America jumped up.

"What?!"

"I am declaring war on you. I have had enough of your tyrannical politicians, screwy laws, and overall idiocy on anything academic. I will fight til the end, America, so that my people will never have to say 'I'm an American' their entire lives. I will not let London start competing to be murder capital of the world, and I most certainly will not rename Big Ben to Benjamin's Clock. I am the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and if you don't like that, tough! I will not let my Parliament become full of those monkeys you call senators and representatives."

"You think that just because you've won almost every war in history it means you can just throw your weight around the entire world, and you won't get in trouble for bugging the phones of your allies or sticking your nose where it doesn't belong. You're still young, and you don't know as much about how the world works than China, Germany, or even me! I know more than you do, and you hate admitting that just because you're supposed to be the greatest country in the world. Guess what? You're not!"

"And if you say that you feel like you have to try to live up to that standard regardless, then let me remind you that no one set that standard for you! You set it for yourself! You bit off more than you can chew, and you're suffering dearly for it. Therefore, when this train wrecks, I refuse to be a part of it. I will fight for my independence until the day either you or me no longer stands, or until you let me have it. Long live the monarchy!" He screamed.

He turned before America could speak—which he couldn't—and grabbed his already packed suitcases and left, going to the airport.

* * *

He opened his eyes as the plane landed on the tarmac. He looked over, and was disgusted to see Old Glory waving from the English flagpole. He got out of the plane, and walked to the outside. He waved over a taxi, got in, and gave the address. After a long drive, he stepped out, staring at the beautiful teal mansion.

It was a light teal, not too obvious and yet obviously there when you looked hard enough. He knew the layout of the house like the back of his hand, and he knew just where she'd be...If she was still...

_No, I will not cry._

He took a deep breath after paying the driver, and rolled his suitcase inside. He recognized the black-eyed Susans planted in neat rows along the three steps to the front door. A red-breasted nuthatch flew away as he came near, a seed from the head of the mini-sunflower still in its beak. She had always loved 'gardening for wildlife', as she said it.

He walked up to the door, and ran his hand along the grain, staring at it before entering the mansion. He rolled the black suitcases in, and rested them in the foyer. He looked around, and closed the door. Everything was as he had left it. Curtains, furniture, TV... He sighed, and walked around. They must have known he'd come here, they being the other countries. He walked around. He looked at the computer in what was her work room. He remembered how he would watch her type for hours on that thing, listening to her wide diversity of music choices, working while hugging the phone to her ear with her shoulder as she laughed about some inside joke with her good friend, Zoe. He smiled sadly, remembering how depending upon what she was doing she would hold the phone to one specific ear, and remembering her laugh that she had always claimed was 'weird'.

He walked in to their bedroom—his bedroom—and opened her bureau's drawers. Empty. Not one single white sock. He closed them, and started to unpack into his drawers. He sat on his bed, and gently ran the fine fabric that made up the curtains of the canopy through his fingers. He remembered how they would close them, and cuddle and just talk in their own little private world. He smiled, memories of how their talks would sometimes turn deep and philosophical swimming through his mind. He got up, and walked to the library.

The shelves and shelves of books had once been regal to him, hiding vast knowledge that he had hungered for—not obsessively, just a desire to read all the books. Some he had bought, some were inherited, some were gifts, and some were bought by Olivia. He grabbed a fairly old book, and thumbed through it, the pages flipping. "Call of the Wild." He said out loud, his voice echoing in the large room. He sounded lonely, and that's how he felt. He put the book back, not in the mood to read. He walked up and down each aisle, though he didn't know why. At one point, he thought he saw brown hair disappearing in to the next aisle, but when he ran and looked over in to it, there was no one. He sighed, and continued his aimless march.

He went to the kitchen, and got out his favorite tea mug. He gazed at it longingly, then put it back after deciding he wasn't happy enough to use it. He grabbed an average mug and put the tea bag in. He filled it with water, and heated it, put a bit of milk in, then sat by the fireplace. He found it funny and yet fitting that when there was a fire there, it radiated heat and togetherness, but when it was just red bricks and gray ash on the ground, it radiated coldness and loneliness. He sipped the tea, staring in to the ashes. He watched as ripples moved outwards from a stray tear that had rolled down his cheek. He could taste the added salt in his tea.

After a shower, he stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. He rifled through some things, and found a razor. Sighing heavily, he gently took it and grabbed the end of his America-curl. He put the sharp edge against the strand, at the base, and cut it off with a fluent motion, letting it fall to the floor.

He crawled in to bed. He gently reached under his pillow, and pulled out his brown teddy bear. He held it against his chest, and curled up around it.

"I love you." He said, although he knew she was again too far away to hear.

She'll always be too far away to hear. Tears spilled on to his bear, and he fell asleep crying.

* * *

_**Poor Iggy...**_

_**So, some of you may have noticed the unimportant name "Zoe" that came up. It doesn't really play a big part in the story or affect your lives drastically...**_

_**But that is my name.**_

_**Now you know, but don't stalk me.**_

_**Ok?**_

_**Ok.**_

_**So, remember to leave reviews and comments and insults and such things for my dear friend~!**_

_**Until next chapter! Follow and Favorite!**_

_**Byyyeeerrrr!**_


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